To the Victor go the Spoils of War
by KatZen
Summary: Father and son catharsis. Reflections on a time they would rather forget. A snippet of his time in the Air Force.
1. Scott

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. No money is made from this. Any original characters, however are mine.**

**AN: Drawing on elements from I'll Be Back Soon and other tales. Not necessary to have read them, I think, but might help contextualise things if you have.**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

_Father and son catharsis. Reflections on a time he would rather forget. A snippet of his time in the Air Force._

They say time heals all wounds.

It doesn't.

Believe me, it doesn't.

They say we have to make peace with all the decisions and choices we make over our lifetime.

It's a near to impossible task. Some choices aren't really choices. Some 'choices' are forced down onto you, from a higher being; someone located further up in the chain of command. Being a lowly Lieutenant, you have no choice but to comply, unless you want your ass hauled over hot coals for disobeying a direct order from a superior officer.

I'd know. You can trust me on that. I've had first-hand experience of it. More times than I can count on all my fingers and toes, all twenty of them. I've even had the threat of a court martial for trusting my gut and not heeding orders that have been passed down the military hierarchy.

People view me as some sort of national hero. I wish they wouldn't. I've heard little kids say that I'm their role model; that they want to be just like me when they grow up, and that makes what's left of my heart – which is near to non-existent now - sink and contort painfully in my gut. They shouldn't view me as an idol; they don't know, don't understand what we went through out there, and don't know the lows I sunk to just to survive.

They don't know that the awards, the so-called mementos, the damned Medal of Honour just lies in a cut-out underneath the floorboards of my room. The maxim _out of sight, out of mind_, doesn't quite work. The public never witnessed the full effects of the Peace Wars; they did not see the destruction, the desolation the war caused, still caused.

It's kind of ironic, isn't it, that the Peace Wars were needed to establish and maintain peace. We needed fighting to stop the fighting, especially in Bereznik, where I was stationed. We needed death to light up the way for peace. We needed calamity to foster harmony. It's a bit of a paradox. It's kind of sad, too, when you realise that Man can be cold and callous to take away another Man's life, without a blink of an eye. To them, killing is a casual thing, something they can do without blinking an eye.

I know what you're thinking, and yes, maybe I am being hypocritical. After all, I was a fighter pilot with the USAF; there had been times when I had been locked onto by a target and we had engaged in a dogfight. There had been missiles fired in that exchange. The difference, though, is that my wingman and I only fired them as a last resort, when all other viable options had been exhausted.

But in this instance, it wasn't like that. In true, peacekeeping-troop style, the United Nations had created a composite of troops from varying countries to provide as much humanitarian aid as possible.

I can remember each and every day of my tour of duty, despite my brain protesting against it.

I can remember every horrifying, heart-stopping moment.

Every bullet ricocheting through a human body. Every blunt, dull thud as the body hit the floor. Every clanging sound the shell casing made after the bullets were fired.

I remember it all.


	2. Jeff

**Disclaimer: see chapter 1**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

_Father and son catharsis. Reflections on a time he would rather forget. A snippet of his time in the Air Force._

He's out there. I can see him, spine bent over in a c-shape as he leans heavily on the railings of the balcony.

Briefly, I wonder if I did the right thing, letting him head out on that last rescue. Bereznik is… a harsh reminder of the life he used to lead. Knowing the past, knowing what happened to him there, I raised objections, but my son, just like his mother, was as stubborn as a mule and insisted he would do his duty. Not that I expected anything less from him.

"Nothing's changed," he mutters, bitter, sensing my presence through some sort of psychic link. "Everything's ravaged; civil unrest is normal, women get raped by rebel forces, men get beheaded and children are murdered. Question it and people shrug their shoulders; just the way of life."

I stand next to him, careful not to touch him. I know how skittish he can be at times. Offer him a shot of whiskey. Anything to smooth out the rough edges.

"You can't solve people's problems for them, son."

He fingers the knot in his spine, fumbles around the indent where a bullet severed his spinal column, hands move fluidly over the scars running up and down his back, token reminders of what he fought for a lifetime ago, what he knows he did not achieve. "I know _that. _I've got the scars to prove it."

More bitterness, mingled with a hint of resentment and desolation. Almost as though he's come to the realisation that his time there in the Air Force meant nothing. He runs tired hands over eyes that are much too old for their time, have beared witness to horrors one could only imagine and returns to the present as a blank slate. He accepts the whiskey, knocks it back as though it was water and heads straight for another shot.

"Why're we doing this? What is the point of it all? Why're we trying to preserve a species that's so hell-bent on destroying themselves? It's madness. Just senseless waste."

Another drink, this time he heads straight from the bottle and swallows from it. The silence between us stretches into an eternity.

"You were right," he eventually says, turning to stare at you. "I shouldn't have gone."

"I was right," I agree, pushing a small mini disc into his hands. I see his eyes widen slightly before the shutters roll down and his eyes dull. Can't hurt him any more than the rescue has to show him what I've found in the basement, can't hurt him to know that I've watched it, even though I know he'd rather I didn't. "I was right, but so were you."


	3. Scott II

**Disclaimer: see chapter 1**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

_Father and son catharsis. Reflections on a time he would rather forget. A snippet of his time in the Air Force._

The rescue call comes in mid morning. Virgil, the Tracy brother that could sleep through nuclear warfare without stirring, stumbles into the room, yawning while trying to organise his hair into something more refined than the 'I-literally-just-rolled-out-of-bed-five-minutes-ago' look he currently sports. Gordon drips his way into the room, leaving soggy footprints in his wake. Grams won't be pleased, nor will Kyrano; this means extra work in ensuring that the floors are dry so as to not cause a slip hazard. Alan and Tin-Tin rush into the lounge at the same time, Alan fudging the last of his buttons through the holes in his shirt while Tin-Tin straightens her attire. Clearly not doing the maintenance on Thunderbird Three that they insisted was completely necessary. Dad frowns slightly and shakes his head in Alan's direction; all of us are aware of his distaste towards mixing personal and professional boundaries, and it's clear that pursuing a relationship with another operative of International Rescue blurs that boundary. Dad opens his mouth to say something, but John intervenes, clearing his throat loudly from Thunderbird Five's video link.

"Uncontrolled burn resultant of a bio-terrorist attack that released Botulinum toxins in the air. I've programmed the coordinates straight to Thunderbirds One and Two and sent them to your watch." The fact that John wasn't mincing his words was an indication of how dire the situation already was. "You'll need to take extra precautions because of the Botulinum. Bio-hazardous suits all around and quarantine upon your return to the island, just until we're sure you haven't been infected with it."

"Why? The bio-hazardous suits are bulkier than our fire hazard suits and make movements harder," Alan challenges. He's never content to just accept John's advice at face value, especially when his advice drags him away from spending every waking moment with Tin-Tin. Virg, Gordon and I share a glance, not fooled for a second by Alan's objections to the bulkiness of the suit. "The fire should kill the bacteria, so there's no problem from the biohazard."

"Botulism is resistant to heat. The particular strain of his bacteria has been genetically engineered so that heat exacerbates the spread and symptoms; once you've contracted it, death is imminent," John replies coolly, quirking a fine blonde eyebrow. "But if you think you're immune to it, be my guest and go without the suit."

Dad steps in and overrides Alan's objections. He scans over the summary file John's sent through the Command and Control console and stares at me. The location is something I have not gleaned over either. It hits too close to home.

"Scott, stand down on this one."

I stare back. "Negative, sir."

A perceptible shift; no longer concerned father and wounded son, but Commander in Chief ordering Field Commander.

"I would rather you didn't go on this one."

"And I think we both know I have to."

I don't wait for the cataclysmic reaction to that. I don't wait to see Gordon shoot panicked eyes at Virgil. I don't see Virgil shrug as if to say 'what can you do? He's stubborn, ornery and do whatever the hell he wants to do. We can't change that'.

As the gantry to Thunderbird One extends, I take some deep breaths. Away from my brothers and father, I don't have to lie anymore; don't have to maintain a façade that was minutes away from crumbling. I won't lie; the location of the rescue has shaken me a bit – after all, it's almost in the same spot as where I was stationed in the Peace Wars – but it's not enough to stop me from doing my job.

I have no doubt that back in the lounge Dad is despairing at my decision, that Virgil, Gordon and Alan are hurriedly discussing how to keep an eye on my without letting me know they're keeping an eye on me.

They shouldn't worry. This is not about reliving the past, checking out the old haunts and seeing what's happened in the span since I was stationed there and now. This is primarily about biohazardous containment, fire control and the safe evacuation and isolation of people. If it happens to offer some closure about my time in the Peace Wars, well, I'll take that too.


	4. Jeff II

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

To the Victor go the Spoils of War

The boys are gone, with Alan, Gordon and Virgil under strict instructions to shadow Scott at all times and stand him down if things get too much for him. Do whatever it takes to keep him safe.

A memory stirs; a nondescript box buried in the storage crawlspace under the villa. It's been a long time since I've thought of it; longer still since there was an appropriate time to broach the subject, but sometimes things just have a way of falling into place. Hidden somewhere in the plethora of boxes is a small disc that documents a smidge of his time during his tour of duty. I scavenge around looking for it, but the disc I'm looking for can't be found. I stand up, heaving a sigh and notice that all of the boxes – ones that used to be stacked neatly on top of each other – have been shifted and are haphazardly dotted around. I know instantly what's happened.

On my way up to Scott's room, I bump into Kyrano. He all but confirms what I suspect; yes, he had seen Scott rummaging around here a few days ago and no, Scott did not want any help in finding what he was looking for. I'm not sure why he's moved the items I'm looking for – Scott can be an enigma when he wants to be one – but he's more transparent to me than he thinks he is. He's hidden the disc, along with other items in a keep-safe box under his floorboards. I know this because I used to do this too, away from the eyes of my eagle-eyed mother.

It takes a while – endless pacing up and down to find the creaky floorboard – but I find it. Placing all the other items back into the keep safe, I take my prize and head back to Command and Control.


	5. Scott III

**Disclaimer: see chapter 1**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

_Father and son catharsis. Reflections on a time he would rather forget. A snippet of his time in the Air Force._

It doesn't really register, doesn't really hit me where we are until I perform a flyover the rescue zone. I mean, I knew where we were headed, but I never really _knew_ until now. It brings back many memories, not all of them pleasant.

Below, I see fields bordered by jungle. Dense vegetation, blankets of green, surround lighter green pastures. Mine fields in disguise. Ingenious, really – the way that the rebel troops had set it up; letting a person tread on a mine while they hid in the jungle with semi-automatic weapon just made it easier to off them – but so cold and callous.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I was down there, sweating buckets out of fear and heat, the mine that I had stepped on pulsing beneath my combat boot, mimicking the beat of my heart. It seems like a lifetime ago that my team had been fired at from the jungle while we were traipsing through the fields and rice paddies.

It's only been three years.

A few miles down from the fields, I see the outline of pre-fabricated houses, identical to the ones we stayed in as part of the UN peacekeeping troops. I'm amazed they're still standing.

The GPS unit on Thunderbird One's console beeps, and Thunderbird One configures herself for a landing. Her landing struts extend into the ground and I brace myself for what comes next. I train my brain to go into automatic so that I can block out the past. I didn't realise how bad it would hit.

Not thinking, just doing seems to be the way to go, seems to be the way to make this easier and I assemble Mobile Control with little happening.

Having been stationed in Bereznik in a previous life has it's advantages; Johnny may be our resident linguist, but I can piece together the current status of the outbreak with military control that are coordinating the scene, using a mix of English interspersed with words from the local dialect. I glance over at the fields where the community have gathered, waiting for a saviour to take them somewhere safer.

The fields stir up more memories; it's the same place where the local kids and the UN peacekeeping forces would play Gillydanda with each other, a strange mix between cricket and baseball. It's the same place where we'd vaccinate them in a vain attempt to keep them safe from all the threats they'd face in their life. It's the same as it was three years ago; it's the place where their lives would be saved.

Something stirs, and I can't look at it anymore. Too much bloodshed there, too close for comfort. Not thinking and just doing is harder to manage than I thought it would be.

Mercifully, before too many memories can stir up, Thunderbird Two comes in for a landing. I can feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up, the way they always do when Two's retros fire and scorch marks into the ground when she lands. Moments later, Alan and Gordon emerge; Gordon places his hand on my shoulder blade but I shrug it off impatiently. I know he means it as a sign of support, but I can do without the useless platitude. I'm not in the mood for it. I turn and face them, steely determination evident in my eyes, pulling up an interactive map on Mobile Control's display.

"Right, men, this is what we're going to do. Gordon, Alan, triage and prepare the civilians for transport to this area," I gesture to an isolated area on the map, and send the coordinates to their watches. "There's a World Unity camp there that are expecting them.

"Virgil, take the Firefly into the armament factory; that's our main concern right now. If the armament factory goes up, the Botulism will spread and even we can't contain it."

The orders issued and my men spring into action. I stand back at Mobile Control as I watch their retreating back. Maybe it's the location, maybe it isn't, but I can't shake the feeling that this won't be a conventional rescue.


	6. Jeff III

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

_Father and son catharsis. Reflections on a time he would rather forget. A snippet of his time in the Air Force._

Tin-Tin's managing Command and Control for me, so I can take a moment to myself. As much as this has shaken me, I can only imagine how it's shaken Scott more. The disc in my hand is proof positive of that. The time when he made this… things had been bad between us. A lot of things said but not meant, and a lot of things meant, but not said. It had driven a rift between us, a rift that I had worsened by the choices and decisions I had made at the time. I hadn't acknowledged that he was a grown man, capable of making his own choices; instead I had tried to control him, force him to conform to a person that he wasn't meant to be, and then, shamefully, I chucked a tantrum when he resisted and forged his own way ahead, without my support. I made many mistakes back then, and even though fences have been mended, I wish I had handled everything better. I should have supported him more, reassured him when he told me he had been called up to Bereznik, instead of giving into my own fear, even when I could see he was terrified. My only justification was that while I had already lost a huge part of my life when I lost the boys' mother, she exists within each and every one of my children; I couldn't lose more of her if I lost Scott.

I couldn't, and I was determined that I wouldn't.

I still am determined not to lose any of my boys, contrary to the organisation I've started, contrary to the occupation they've all fallen into, one way or another.

Steeling my nerves, steeling my emotion, I slide the disc into the player.


	7. Scott IV

**Disclaimer: see chapter 1**

To the Victor go the Spoils of War

Virgil, Gordon and Alan are long gone; there's not a lot for me to do but wait.

That's the worst part of rescues, the waiting. It's even worse when I'm waiting in Bereznik.

Back in the Air Force, it felt like all we ever did was wait. Wait for an order, wait for an attack, wait for a ceasefire. Wait for the other shoe to drop. In the latter parts of my career, it seemed like all we did in the prisoner-of-war camp was wait for freedom or wait for death.

So no, waiting in Bereznik makes me tetchy. My legs jitter; I can feel my knees twitch involuntarily, the muscles near my eye flinching beyond my control. I mask my uneasiness by swallowing some water. It helps by miniscule degrees, just by giving me something to do.

The militant hovers near me, gun trained at the ground. The guns, even though not trained on me, don't ease the waiting. For me, guns and Bereznik don't gel well. I can feel his eyes bore holes into me, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. Eyes shuttering, my guard goes up.

"You're familiar," he grunts, moving fractionally closer to me. It's a fraction too close. "You were here, before, in the dark times. In the time with the rebels."

Instinctively, I reach for the holster, before checking myself. It's amazing how the word _rebels_ can trigger such a response from me. I thought I had worked through that. Funny how we revert to our base levels when every other shred of decency gets stripped away.

_Don't draw. This is not the same time as it was three years ago. You're not the same quick tempered, hot head you were. The place has changed you, and for the better. Don't draw until there's a threat._

I stare back, unwavering, hand still on the tranquiliser in my holster. I can't give in, can't confirm or deny it. Secrecy to International Rescue, to Dad's brainchild, above all else.

"I recognise those eyes," he continues, prattling on without care for what this is doing to me, without realising that my insides are twisting themselves up in knots at the fact that I've been outed in this Godforsaken place.

They were right. I shouldn't have come back.

"You were there. You saw the horrors and you did _nothing_!"

The gun isn't trained on the ground; I'm staring down the barrel of it instead. My heart slams violently against my ribcage, beating out a rapid tattoo. I feel, rather than see him propel his way towards me, grab me by the nape of my neck and force me to my knees.

In normal circumstances, my first instance is to comply, attempt to cooperate to talk them down. But this isn't normal. Normal is never personal, and we both know this is.

Every synapse in my body has a current of electricity running through it, every nerve ending screaming at me to knee him where it hurts the most and run but I remain rooted to the spot.

_Karma's a bitch. Or is this justice?_

The man standing behind me, the one filled with such hatred, the one who literally holds my life in his hands, issues out orders to his comrades in a harsh, guttural tone. It doesn't take a genius to realise that the situation does not bode well for me. Hands and arms are pulled out of shape, watch lost in the process., almost like they're deboning me like chicken wings. A hessian cloth is tied around my eyes and the world turns black.


	8. Jeff IV

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

To the Victor go the Spoils of War

The disc lies in the player, forgotten. As cliché as it is, I have bigger fish to fry. A message relayed by Tin-Tin has me dashing back up to Command and Control, two stairs at a time. There's only one thing that can move me as quick as that, and that's when my boys are in trouble.

"John, any updates?"

"Negative, sir."

_This is not as bad as last time. This is nowhere near as bad as last time. _

I snort with self-depricating laughter; the only change between then and now is that Scott and I are on speaking terms with each other. At all the levels that matter, the situation is the same. My son has been taken, kidnapped, gone without a trace. In Air Force speak, he's missing in action, presumed dead until proven otherwise.

A shard goes through my chest. This is too close to the past that we've both tip-toed around on eggshells. Neither one of us has the courage to deal with the ghosts of the past; we're too similar in all the wrong ways, both preferring to bottle emotions up and ignore them until we have no choice but to deal with them before one of us implodes. I guess I have no one to blame but myself for this; Scott learnt it from me, after all.

"Keep trying, John. Who knows, we might be lucky."

John looks sceptical, but I choose to ignore it. Over three years, I've learnt that in a Pandora's box of rescues blind faith and hope are the things you let loose while despair, desolation and ill will need to be trapped away in the dark depths and recesses that no one else can find.

The line between me and Thunderbird Five dissolves into static as John dives back into the task that I left him. The silence left in the room is deafening. Never has stillness been so unsettling; in a house with more than 6 adults under the same roof, I have come to enjoy the rare moments of serenity, calmness and silence that come my way, but this is not a moment of calmness. This is multiple moments of controlled panic, all strung together like beads on a string.

Another moment of controlled panic, one a bit closer to home, needs to be investigated. It's sitting in the mini-disc player. I prime my watch so that any information can be rerouted to it and instruct Tin-Tin to man Command and Control, just in case, before heading into a private room to view whatever dark and depressing thoughts and fears are contained in Scott's Pandora's Box.


	9. Scott V

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

It takes a while, but I eventually come to. There's not a lot of daylight in the room that I'm imprisoned in, but even so, I squint. It helps with the pounding in my head, almost as though there's an all-nighter disco happening in my brain. Everything is a cacophony of noise, colours, smells, sensations. Brain in overdrive and overloading, mixing memories of the past, memories that I thought were safely repressed, back to the forefront of my mind.

The captors are talking. Or they're arguing. Hard to tell given that their tone is harsh, as though their throats are filled with shards of glass and they're spitting out fireballs.

I let my head loll back; it slams into a concrete wall, shutting my eyes as I wince in pain as fireworks explode at the point of contact.

_Goddammit, Tracy. The captors don't kill you, you sure as hell will given the way you're treating your body._

There are younger voices outside – whether this is reality or a flashback from the past, I don't know – but it gives me something to focus on. Childrens' voices. Light and cheerful, sounding like little sparrows on a spring morning. Laughter too, although who could laugh in a place like this? A place that holds a dark, sinister and terrifying past. The nodule at the base of my neck tingles and I touch it almost subconsciously. The chip that was inserted into me during the Peace Wars sits there, the one that made me a prisoner-of-war. One of the many scars that I carry with me.

I can hear the thud of a bat against a ball, hear the wood splinter from the force of the swing; Gillydanda was the game of choice amongst the youngsters when I was last here. Hear the screams of laughter from the villagers that had so little and yet found so much joy in the simple things in life, deceptively cheerful for this hell hole. Can almost feel the vibrations of the propeller plane we used as part of our role in providing humanitarian aid to the war ravaged areas that needed it the most. The knot in my chest tightens, my eyes close one more time. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

"No!" The harsh voice growls against my ear, the talon like fingernails dig into my shoulder. "You watch! You watch and you lament at what you stole from us! You sanctimonious bastards who came in, watched the atrocities and did nothing about it! You have ruined us, and our future!"

The irony of the situation isn't lost of me, but it does spur me into action. Drawing on reserves I never knew existed within me, I rise to my feet. Slowly, shakily and unsteadily, but I get up. Eye-to-eye, equals, instead of captor and captive. My hands reach down to the hem of my shirt and I pull it over my head. They can see the scars, indents and pock marks that litter my torso, all 997 of them.

"I didn't watch the atrocities; they were performed on me. I was there to help stop them, protect others, and they did this to me." Of their own accord, my hands fumble with the buttons and fly of my pants until they fall to the ground and I'm in front of them in nothing but underwear. I have never been this exposed on a rescue before, but at the same time, I have never been so in control of my narrative in this nation. For the first time in a long time in Bereznik, I feel powerful.

_Let them see everything, let them see what was stolen from me too. Let them see the remnants of the horrors I encountered; different but no less than theirs. My dignity, my hopes for my future, all of those ideals and dreams I had in the Air Force crumbled to quintessence of dust. _

Years on, the scar tissue on the insides of my thighs remain nobbled, raised skin resembling Gordian knots. It's one of the many physical signs of the psychological torture that we encountered as prisoners-of-war. Years on, I can still feel the visceral pain of the poker melting its way through skin, sinew and bone. I can see the angry red glow of the poker contrast to the hard obsidian of an old ally's eyes, emotionless as he threatened to derive me of the dream I cherished the most – the family life with the white picket fence and 2.5 kids – by threatening to render me sterile through their actions. Not that it came to fruition, but that isn't the point I'm trying to make. There were no winners in the war back then but there were plenty of losers and plenty of victims. Now that I'm older and wiser, I know that disaster and calamity benefitted no one.

_Peaceful negotiation seems to be the way out of here._

Peaceful negotiation and Bereznik? It seems like an oxymoron.

"You suffered, your family suffered. Wrong was carried out against you, against everything you believe in and everything you stand for. I'm not denying that. We did too. But this is not the answer. It never is."

The captors scoff. "More empty words! Empty words from magnanimous schmucks that promise to help our people, fight the infidels intent on wiping us out, but never have the balls to follow through! For years I have watched my friends and my family be raped, tortured and executed on the whims of the rebel forces. Now we fight back and eradicate anyone who turned a blind eye to our plight, anyone who poses a threat to us!"

For the first time, I actually look at the captors. They can't be older than sixteen, barely old enough to shave the fluff of their cheeks, even though their eyes seem lifetimes older. They're the eyes of someone that's seen far too much, far too young. I see it because it mirrors my own eyes.

Sixteen years old, trained to use military grade weapons, and filled with hatred and idealism is a deadly combination. I can't blame them though; the Peace Wars have been raging on for so long that even I can't remember what the catalyst for it was, and I'm nearly a decade older than they are. These boys in front of me have never known a time without fighting, have never seen how to resolve conflict peacefully.

_This is the product of our collective failure. This is the problem we have not been able to solve._

"Killing me," I say softly, "won't bring the ones you've lost back. It won't change that, and it won't make you feel any better either. The only thing that will happen is that you'll lose all sympathy for your plight."

"We don't want sympathy! We want safety! We want to be able to live in peace, without looking over our shoulders for the rebel forces."

"Even so, this is not the way to get there. Fight, by all means accomplish what I haven't managed, but do so with your words, not your weapons. You'll be better men for it."

I don't seem to have deescalated the situation, given that one of the captors has slammed the butt of his gun against the back of my skull with considerable force. Instantaneously, my legs give out from underneath me and the world turns black.


	10. Jeff V

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: quick update, since this chapter was mostly written and has been sitting in the document manager for over a week. Not sure when the next update for anything will be - bushfires are pretty close to where I am at the moment - so prepping property/getting ready to evacuate if needed will be higher on the priority list.**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

The watch on my wrist pings. Virgil, Alan and Gordon have managed to contain the uncontrolled burn and have reduced the chance of the Botulinum spreading and infecting others. They're on their way back to Thunderbird Two to run some preliminary tests to see if they've been contaminated with the pathogen in that process, but while the tests are running, they'll be scouting the area to see if they can locate their kidnapped brother.

The lights are dimmed, the projection screen lowered and the mini-disc flickers into life. My eldest son's face looms down from it, and it hits me how young he was back then. He wasn't even 21 when he made this tape, when he had to face the prospect of his own mortality. He was idealistic, hopeful and naïve to the cruel nature of the world; his eyes had been veiled against the atrocities humans can commit to each other. He hadn't devolved into the guarded misanthrope that he can be, cynicism and resentment burning a thin cord through him.

"So, I guess if you're watching this, you can say _I told you so._ Not that it's going to change the fact that I'm getting a state funeral, but you can still say it anyway." The Scott on the screen snorts self-deprecatingly, and sighs. "Sorry, I'm being flippant when I should be being serious."

Scott clears his throat as his hand involuntarily creeps up to his mouth and he starts chewing on the skin near his thumb. A sure sign that he was nervous when he made this. I can't blame him – the prospect of summarising the triumphs, mistakes and regret that shape a man into what he is into a five minute farewell, is a daunting task, probably one that only others in his situation can comprehend with complete understanding and alacrity.

He chews some more before drawing in a deep breath. "Where to begin? Where should I begin? So much to say, so little time."

He's got that right; there is so much for me to say to him, and I don't even know if I'll have the time to tell him that. Funny how words have a universal meaning in a variety of contexts.

"I guess I'll start with a thank you. I know you don't agree with me being posted to Bereznik – believe me, you made your lack of support abundantly clear – but thank you for not pulling strings with the top brass to get me off this mission."

That cuts me to the bone. Scott doesn't know this, but I tried to use my wealth and name for good purpose; to remove him from the task at hand. To no avail, but I tried. It wasn't a lack of faith in him; it was a lack of faith in the cause that they were waging war against. I've served my country with pride, honour and distinction, but even my sense of patriotism can't blind me to common sense; sending our boys and girls into a war that wasn't even ours to begin with seemed to be the height of stupidity, and I didn't want my son used as a pawn in a chess game that had layers of complexity that even I didn't understand and was embroiled in so much politics he'd need a buzz saw to cut through all the red tape to get himself out. It sounds selfish, as though Scott was more important than all those other personnel deployed and serving out there, but I think I'm allowed to be selfish in this instance; he's my child and for me, there is no one more important to me than my children.

"You haven't always been the best dad -"

_This is what he wanted to say all those years ago?! This is how he chose to say adios?!_

"- but in spite of that," he hesitates, pondering his words. "No, _because_ of that, you've instilled in me values that no one can put a price on. Honesty, determination, resilience, loyalty and, if Grams' tales of your misspent youth are anything to go by," his eyebrows quirk at the next part and a slightly guilty smile ghosts across his face, "a certain disregard for authority."

I'll say. The number of times Scott had been brought back to the farm in disgrace after he was caught out after town curfew with his paramour was innumerable. Being stopped by highway patrol while Scott was driving (and I use that term loosely) and shrinking into my seat, wishing the Earth would open up and swallow me whole while he argued that 'speed limits are really speed recommendations when there's no one else on the road' is probably not one of my finer parenting moments. I guess in some respects, Scott really is too similar to me.

Scott's face draws back, as the magnitude of what he's entered into hits him and he sobers up. "There's no room to disregard authority here. There's no room to disregard anything. My CO says jump, I don't ask how high; I just jump and keep on jumping until they tell me to stop. Since I've been here, I haven't stopped jumping."

It strikes me that he's not just talking about his CO's orders.

"Every little thing makes me jump. A car backfiring, a lunch tray slamming to the floor in the mess tent. Not even Gordon's pranks have put me this on edge. Never said this before in my life to you, but I am shit scared."

Another pause. Scott has never been one to mince his words, but he has always put a lot of thought and time into the words that he uses.

"Being out here, it makes you think. Think about the life you wished you'd led, think about your mortality. And I have thought about it; it's the one thing that keeps me up at night. I know you don't believe this, but I do, and it's important to me so I'm going say it again. There are two things in life that are worse than death; living without honour and dying without reason."

"My death out here would be neither of those things."

Another moment of sobered silence.

"A few weeks ago, before we were even stationed here, a girl was killed in a neighbouring village. She was captured, tortured and raped before they executed her at point blank range with her parents watching before shooting the parents. All because she had refused to marry one of the rebels; she wanted to pursue her education instead. Wanted to be a nurse. Wanted a lot of things out of this life. She died without reason and they live without honour. If I get killed by trying to protect the next generation from that fate, then I would have lived with honour and died with reason, and I can live with that."

He frowns and considers what he just said.

"Sorry. Poor choice of words. You can make peace with the fact that I've made peace with it. It's one of the few things in life that I have made peace with."

I wonder if he's going to divulge what I've wanted to know for over a decade. I wonder if he'll talk to me about the avalanche, about the air bubble under the snow, about his last moments with Lucy before she was stolen away from us.

"I'd like to make peace with one more thing." A deep breath from both of us.

_Please. Please, Scott. Just give me this._

"The snow," the Scott on the screen continues in a soft voice, and I exhale in relief. In the video clip, I can hear a commotion. Scott turns his head and nods in the direction of a blurred figure in the background.

"Sorry. Gotta run. Pulled onto a mission since the other pilot's sick. Guess I'll have to finish this when I'm back."

The disc dissolves into static and I'm left feeling bereft. I fast forward, waiting to see if he ever does come back, but there's nothing else. It's a loose end he's left us hanging on. I'm praying to a deity I don't really believe in to get my son back to me, but given his status as _locum ignotum_, I'm terrified that all the unfinished business I have with him will be left in tatters and loose ends.


	11. Scott VI

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

I come to, can feel the arid ground beneath my skin – still mostly undressed from before - can feel the radiant heat swamping me, can sense the harsh sunlight beating down on me and feel the sweat trickle down my back, but I don't open my eyes. If I keep them closed, maybe I can live in the world of make-belief. Pretend I'm not here, pretend this isn't real, pretend that none of this should have happened.

A sharp kick to the kidneys disillusions me and brings me back to the harsh reality that is my life at the moment.

_You are here, this is real, and it has happened. Can't pretend enough to change the facts._

Eyes snap open, all neurons pulsing on rapid alert. Now that the boys have revealed their hand and their true nature, I know I have to keep my guard up. If there's one thing I've learnt from my time in the prisoner-of-war camp, it's self-preservation.

Manhandled roughly to my feet. Not the roughest I've ever been manhandled in Bereznik.

I take in stock of my surroundings. It's too familiar. It's been a long time since I've been here.

It hasn't been long enough.

I could have lived a long and content life without having to revisit the prisoner-of-war camp I was held hostage in.

The landscape has changed – a little more lush than before, with sprigs of vegetation and vegetable patches, bright blooms and green contrasting against the dull ground where electrified barbed wire fences once were – but it isn't enough to mask the sinister secrets this place holds. It isn't enough to erase what I know lurks underground. The stench of death cloaks us, a dark, ominous cloud.

"Get up." Harsh, guttural tone. "Get up and look at what you did. Admire your handiwork." My head swivels towards the vegetable patch. It's not a place that I would choose to grow food, but in their current climate, it is probably the only viable patch of land on which they can grow food. It's the only patch of fertility in what should be, dry and barren. It never ceases to amaze me how resilient life is, how it can spring from those dead and buried beneath the ground.

"Feast upon the flesh of our families. That's how we survive. That's what you and your kind did to us!"

On the exterior, I have a stone cold front. Show no emotion, show no fear and remain the one in control, but inside, the boys have no idea how those words twist my insides like snakes. It's a trigger, builds up feelings of hatred, revulsion and helplessness. Drags me back to a time I can't forget but don't want to remember. Feasting upon the flesh reminds me of the lows some of us sunk to to endure during our time as prisoners-of-war. Feasting upon the flesh of those that had died during captivity was never an option for me, but people did what they had to do to survive.

"To the victor go the spoils of war," they mutter in their harsh dialect with no hint of irony. It's almost a foregone conclusion as to what happens next.

Shoved roughly to my knees, sand and dirt and dust a meagre cushion against the fall. Barrel of a gun rammed into the base of my neck, just under the brain stem. The nodule that's embedded under my skin throbs, making its presence known, a reminder that I did what I could all those years ago and it still wasn't enough. A reminder that I survived while others did not, while others died to keep me safe. A reminder that no matter how much good I've done with International Rescue, with philanthropic endeavours as a way to honour and appreciate the sacrifice of others, I've always been running on borrowed time.

_An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a bullet for a bullet and a death for a death. To the victor go the spoils of war, indeed._

I've never realised how detailed oriented I become when I think I'm in the last moments of life. I notice things in ways I've never noticed them before. I can see the air moving in a shimmer off in the distance. The green from the vegetable patch glitters blues and indigo as the sunlight reflects of the leaves. Even the dirt that passes for the ground takes on new light. There's a faint hum of insects, far away from this little shop of horrors. There's a kaleidoscope of colour, a cacophony of noise. All trivial at this point in my life, but also meaningful at this point in my life.

I wonder what they hope to achieve by killing me. Surely they'd realise that it's more punishing for me to stay alive and carry the knowledge that I didn't do enough than it is to let me escape the guilt.

"Look at him," they mutter again. "No shame. No remorse. None whatsoever. Instead he has the audacity to return to the scene of his crime."

_The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men to do nothing. _

I feel rather than see the finger tensing on the trigger of the gun and wait for a bullet that never penetrates my body. I imagine rather than hear the string of obscenities that escape their lips when they realise the gun jammed.

_The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men to do nothing._

The mantra repeats itself, the only string of words I can put together that makes sense in this place of upside-down, where good intentions can dissipate into clouds of smoke in a second. I suppose it's my subconscious urging me to fight back, especially since I know that the real world doesn't work like math; two wrongs here don't make a right, but I don't have it in me, emotionally, mentally or physically to take out a handful of teenagers that hold weapons that could obliterate me within minutes.

My knees give out underneath me, through no fault of my own. Exhaustion, plus what seems to be a metal pipe slammed across the back of my knees, overpowers me and I succumb to it. I can feel the dead weight of someone resting on my spine and rib cage, possibly two someones by the feel of it. Talon like fingernails noose their way around my neck, tightening slowly as if I'm in a vice. I draw in breath in ragged gasps before the surroundings swim and the world turns black once more.


	12. Jeff VI

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

How long I sit there, I don't know. Watching the tape has only given me more questions than answers. When did he stop considering his mortality? More importantly, when did he start? Why did it take estrangement and a war he had no business to be fighting in for him to feel ready to confess my late wife's last words? What stopped him before? How do I know so much and yet so little about him?

I wonder if I'm that much of an ogre that my kids can't confide their fears and their worries to me. I wonder what my other sons keep from me. I wonder if I'll get the chance to clear the air with them before it's too late.

The intercom beeps and John comes into view from his communication portrait. It draws me out of my reverie.

"I think I've located Scott." His voice rings out, sharp and crisp. Devoid of emotion. Business like, even. It strikes me how cut throat he can be at times, but then again, I suppose they all have to be to deal with what they do on a daily basis. I drink in his appearance, really take it in and I can see the toll that this rescue has taken on him. The cerulean blue eyes don't twinkle like they used to; they've lost the ethereal shine that mirror the stars he fell in love with as a child. His face could be carved in granite, all angular, pointed and tough as nails, and I wonder when I lost the sensitive boy that is my son. I wonder when John morphed from a boy who couldn't get to sleep without his star plushie to the man I see in front of me. How did I miss it? It strikes me that this has been how John's looked for a while now, and I've never really registered the changes. I wonder what it looks like when he crumbles, _if_ he crumbles. I wonder if I'm the Frankenstein that's breathing fire into the monsters. I wonder if the road to hell is truly paved with good intentions gone awry.

"I used the heat sensors, GPS positioning within a certain radii and other satellite imagery to scan the area. It's grainy, but I think it's him."

I wave at him to send the footage to the display panel on my desk. He hesitates, unsure whether to comply and I growl slightly.

"You've seen the footage," I surmise and he nods slowly.

"It's not pretty," he states quietly.

_Nothing in life ever is._

"It's better than sitting here, not knowing," I reply.

The lights dim automatically as I play the reel. Dots on the screen move jerkily. It seems like they're carrying a sack of potatoes. I move to dismiss it, but a second glance give me more detail. The dots have weapons strapped to their bodies. The sack of potatoes is my son, still and unmoving.

"John, enhance the quality of this, quick smart." Even I can't hide the quaver of fear and dread in my voice.

The reel disappears from sight as Johnny does my bidding, but I find the absence of the tape worse. All I'm left with is a snapshot of the situation and my imagination to fill in the blanks.

_The worst case scenario is always magnified when you don't have all the facts in front of you._

"Send the location coordinates to Virgil, Gordon and Alan. They'll get him. _Don't_ let them take any one else with them. We were meant to be able to trust the troops on the ground and look at what happened. Deadlock the machines too; I don't want to take any chances with this."

"Already done," John replies with cool efficiency. He taps on the Data Pad in front of him, remotely activating the strongest secure settings to lock down Thunderbird One and Two. The machines will need a multitude of biometric data and voice activation to become functional again. He taps some more and flicks his head towards the desk.

"Enhanced footage is there, with a live feed so you can see what's happening in real time," he grimaces, swallowing revulsion down before steeling up again. This is what it's like when he crumbles. Momentary, but he does and it relieves me to know he still has empathy within him. Perhaps I'm not creating monsters after all.

I play the footage once more and take stock of all the detail I can see. The dots are now people. Young too, from the looks of their torso, perhaps in the throes of adolescence. Too young to be wielding military grade rifles, grenades and rocket launchers. Too young to look like they're carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Too young to have to live the lives they have. My vision tunnels in on Scott. Mostly undressed, in nothing but his underwear, but I can see the scars that he bears and it cuts me to the bone. I can see dried blood on his skin, his hands, knees and head. I can imagine the mottled bruising on his skin. I can see the horror let loose on him, both past and present.

I watch on, transfixed, as they throw him to the ground roughly and aim a kick where his kidney would be. I wince, feeling the pain as keenly as Scott would have felt it, and hope that they haven't caused internal damage by using steel capped boots.

Scott doesn't move with the kick. He hasn't moved at all. It makes me question if he's still alive. But if he isn't, what are they doing out here?

My mind scrolls back to a few days ago, recalling news broadcasts from the area the rescue was in.

_Dear God, they aren't going to burn him in effigy, are they?_

Every organ in me clenches in sick anticipation. Being burnt alive is quite possibly the worst way for a person to go, in my opinion. Gordon argues with that; as someone that has been on fire, albeit briefly, and has almost drowned, he says drowning is worse. He claims it's as if one thousand needles are piercing through your lungs while your skin is alight.

But I digress.

My eyes travel back to the screen. It's almost like watching a car crash; I don't want to look, but I can't look away.

They haul Scott to his knees. I don't have to look at my son to see the expression that would be plastered all over his face. Resolute, yet resigned to his fate. They seem to be saying something; whether it's to Scott or about him, I can't tell, and it irks me. Knowledge is power, and no knowledge is no power.

One of the captors loses his patience; the bazooka slams into the back of Scott's knees with considerable force and he crumples to the ground like a paper doll dissolving in the rain. They climb over him, pin him down with their body weight and scramble for purchase at his neck. It strikes me that Scott isn't fighting back; arms hang loosely by his sides. Almost as if this is a welcome relief for him.

_Scott, now is not the time to take the path of least resistance._

Maybe he doesn't have the energy. Who knows what's been inflicted on him while he was missing in action? Maybe he physically can't fight back; exhaustion, injury, potential drugging to make him less feisty are all possible to explain his actions.

The captors continue, relentless in their quest for dominance over a man who's only crime was to try and help them. Fists pummel into his body, blow after blow in relentless succession. Skin splits open and blood trickles to the ground, droplets forming like rubies, glinting under the harsh sun. I can only surmise one of them has a knife that they're using to carve my son open like a jack o' lantern. I can only hope that Scott's fallen unconscious so he doesn't know what he's been subject to.

A boot to the ribs. I suck in breath. Worst case scenario would be that his ribs have broken and have punctured his lung, a slow and painful death to suffocate on your own blood. Best case scenario would be bruised to the bone ribs.

The onslaught continues, but I can't watch anymore. It hurts me just as much as it hurts him. I shift in the chair, muscles as tense as they have been in a long time and try to busy myself with other work.

_Anything to keep my brain ticking over. Anything to not think about what I've done. _

It's futile; my eyes keep darting to the live video feed instead of focusing on the contracts I should be reading. Suddenly, the captors stop the vicious assault on my son. Something must have spooked them; their heads swivel to look in the same direction and they rush to their feet before darting out of sight. They leave Scott on the ground, battered, bruised and bleeding in the elements.

_Be thankful for small mercies._

John's portrait flashes again, but I ignore it, an action that will irk John no end. I don't need him to confirm something that I can see on screen. Three figures, all clad in blue, burst into the compound, sprinting with a sense of urgency when they see their fallen comrade on the ground. They move with practiced ease as they take stock of the sight before them. Virgil moves to ascertain the extent of his injuries while Gordon and Alan unpack the first aid kit and pull out the essentials that they need. I can see the neck brace and spinal board inflate and hover beside them. Virgil inserts a needle into Scott's vein and hooks him up to saline before they bundle him carefully into a blanket and roll him onto the spinal board.

I breathe out the breath I didn't even know I was holding, relief washing over me in tidal waves as I watch my younger sons carry their brother out of harms way.

_Bring him home, boys. Everything will be fine if we can just bring him home._


End file.
